


somewhere i have never travelled, gladly beyond

by biswholocked



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Angst and Hurt/Comfort, First Kiss, First Time, Guilt, M/M, Minor Character Death, References to Drugs
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-23
Updated: 2015-12-23
Packaged: 2018-05-08 17:29:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,746
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5506574
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/biswholocked/pseuds/biswholocked
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Guilt is a heavy weight to hold on your shoulders.</p>
            </blockquote>





	somewhere i have never travelled, gladly beyond

**Author's Note:**

  * For [verdant_fire](https://archiveofourown.org/users/verdant_fire/gifts).



> Written for Holmestice Winter 2015, for verdant_fire. You can also read it on the holmestice comm [here](http://holmestice.livejournal.com/371234.html). Title comes from a poem by e.e. cummings of the same name. Thanks to pandoras-chaos for the beta!

Mary Morstan Watson is walking to her car with grocery bags in hand on a Saturday morning when a knife enters her stomach. A second later, the man is gone and Mary is bleeding out on the pavement. In the chaos that follows no-one can give a definite description of perpetrator. Unreliable witnesses-- the bane of investigators.

________

There is a funeral, for her and the baby. Sherlock doesn’t attend and spends the afternoon on a rooftop across the street from the crime scene, staring down at the patch of pavement where it happened. There’s still a discoloration from where they scrubbed away the blood. His mobile rings. He lets it go to voicemail.

_You’re missing something, Sherlock. Clouded by sentiment._ It isn’t a stretch to imagine Mycroft saying the words. 

_You’re Sherlock Bloody Holmes. Figure this out!_ John yells. Sherlock winces and deletes the voicemail from his phone without listening to it, then spends some time standing by the edge of the roof, just thinking.

Two weeks pass. Sherlock swallows down his pride long enough for Mycroft to confirm his suspect, then slams the door behind him as he leaves. Three days later, he takes a cab to John- ~~and-Mary~~ ’s flat and slips the police file under the door. Better John get his answers from bureaucratic paperwork; this way, Sherlock doesn’t have to see John’s face when he reads the damning evidence:

_She’s the wife of that doctor that follows Sherlock Holmes round, you know. That bastard detective and that doctor got my brother killed. I was just doing right by him._

________

John comes home on a Tuesday. Sherlock isn’t there to welcome him, because Sherlock is halfway across London at a crime scene, scowling at blood spatter. It’s the first crime scene Sherlock’s been to...since. Lestrade’s hovering with a concerned frown.

“Anything?” Lestrade asks behind him.

“Enough to know your team is full of imbeciles,” Sherlock snaps, turning. “Clean carpets, dirty sheets, indentations of tripods and light trees set up here, here, and here. A man, tied up in a compromising position, with a bullet through the back of his throat.”

Lestrade and the techs stare, wide-eyed.

“It’s a porn set, for God’s sake,” Sherlock yells. “Gun play gone wrong. Focus on the co star or director and you’ll have your murderer. He,” he points to the victim, “was planning on leaving the business, they couldn’t stand it. What do you have between those ears of yours?” 

“Amazing,” one of the constables breathes. 

Sherlock loses his breath all at once. The word rings in his ears, but it’s all wrong, the wrong pitch and the wrong cadence and the wrong person. 

“It’s not _amazing_ ,” he growls.

“But how did you--”

“I observed!” Sherlock snarls. “Something all the rest of you are apparently incapable of. What I do is not some magic trick. It’s not something to be awed by. It’s something to be used, when it’s necessary, not something to be relied upon when Scotland Yard is too lazy to handle their own crimes.”

A moment of tense silence passes. Sherlock stalks out of the room and out the front door of the small flat, sucking in a deep breath of the sharp, cold air.

“Sherlock!” Lestrade forces his attention, pulls on the arm of Sherlock’s coat until he turns.

“What?”

“What was that back there?” Lestrade demands.

“Disgust at the apparent lack of brains New Scotland Yard has been permitting on their force,” Sherlock retorts. “I’m not your lap dog, Lestrade.”

Lestrade barks out a humourless laugh. “No, never that,” he says.

“Good. Then we’re agreed,” Sherlock concludes, and tries to pull away. Lestrade holds on.

“Is this because of John? Sherlock, he doesn’t blame--”

“This is about ineptitude, Lestrade, not _feelings_ ,” Sherlock spits viciously, finally freeing himself from Lestrade’s grip and shoving down the guilt that crawls up his throat at John’s name. “Next time you call, make sure it’s not a waste of my time.”

________

Mrs Hudson ambushes him in the hall, smiling widely.

“Oh, Sherlock,” she clucks. “You just missed his arrival.”

“I was on a case, Mrs Hudson,” Sherlock begins.

“No matter, though,” she continues, determined. “He’s up there now, getting settled. I baked some coffee cake, just this once mind you, since it’s a special occasion.” She gives Sherlock that _not-your-housekeeper_ look, just for a moment, then spins him round by the shoulders and pushes him none too gently toward the stairs. 

“Go on, then,” she says. “He’s waiting.” Her thin hands are insistent on his shoulder blades. Schooling his features, Sherlock complies and walks up the stairs. In his chest, his heart thumps against his ribs.

________

John is sitting in the red armchair, the one Sherlock has steadfastly refused to call John’s these past months. Sherlock stands in the doorway, eyes devouring. John’s hair is more grey now, his wrinkles more pronounced. He’s wearing a simple plaid shirt under a blue jumper with a pair of threadbare jeans, and Sherlock’s mind gets stuck for just a moment on the frisson of attraction that runs through him. Then, it’s moving on, to John’s sock-covered feet - his shoes are by the door - and the mug of tea that sits on the side table.

John looks at him. Sherlock forces himself to keep breathing.

“John,” he says evenly.

John smiles softly and stands. “Sherlock.”

They’re stuck there, potential hovering between them, until Sherlock looks away.

“I only stopped by to say hello. I’m on a case, in a bit of a rush.”

“Let me put on my shoes, I’ll join you.”

“That’s not necessary, really,” Sherlock says stiffly. John’s smile falls.

“Right, sure. I’ll just, uh.” John clears his throat. “Good luck, then,” he finishes, and walks past Sherlock. The scent of his cologne fills Sherlock’s head and makes his gut clench in longing, but he doesn’t stop John from walking up the stairs to second storey and listening for the sound of John’s door closing. 

Mrs Hudson has turned on the telly in her flat. Sherlock leaves under the cover of a laugh track.

________

The security cameras follow Sherlock as he walks. Scowling, Sherlock ducks into an alley and takes a route out of his brother’s sight to Regent’s Park, where he sits on a cold bench. Anxiety has lit up his cravings; the cup of coffee he buys and drinks black does little to stop him from considering a taste of something stronger. Mycroft may think he’s cut off all Sherlock’s contacts, but there are some people Sherlock knows he’s missed. It would be so easy. A few lines of cocaine, and perhaps his sentiment would quiet long enough for rational thought. A few lines more, and maybe he could think about returning to Baker Street without feeling his hands begin to shake. By the time he’d gotten properly high, Sherlock knows he’d be too far gone to register the heat that pools in his stomach when he considers the idea of John’s skin beneath his fingers.

Temptation washes over his tongue. Sherlock pushes it back with a swig of his coffee, grimacing.

________

He goes back to the flat when night has established dominance over the sky. Everything - the click of the lock, the creak of the steps under his feet - becomes deafening in the hush of darkness. Sherlock’s breath is harsh in his ears; it isn’t until he closes his bedroom door behind him that he permits a soft sigh to fall from his lips. He reaches for the switch that controls the overhead light, but before he can turn it on, his bedside lamp is clicked on.

John is perched on the edge of Sherlock’s bed, elbows on his knees. He speaks, staring at Sherlock’s bookshelves. “I texted Lestrade. He told me that you’d left his crime scene in a snit, refusing to work on the investigation anymore. And then I wondered why Sherlock Holmes, the most abrasive man in the world, would lie and tell me he was on a case, when he wasn’t.”

John stands, arms clasped behind his back, and walks toward him. Sherlock steps away until his back presses against the door, and John comes just one step closer. Their chests nearly touch.

“Ever since. Ever since Mary and the baby died, this is how it’s been,” John says lowly, venom filling his words. “You, avoiding my calls. You, running off alone. Mrs Hudson was more enthusiastic than you when I asked to move back in. Why?”

Sherlock’s words are stuck in his throat, choking. John continues.

“I want to be here, with you. God, I do. But if this is what it’s going to be like, always just you and me, separate….If you don’t want me here, then I’ll leave.”

“I don’t,” Sherlock blurts, desperate. His fingers scratch against the wood of the door, aching to reach out and touch.

John’s face shutters closed, and Sherlock’s words reach his ears.

“I don’t want you gone, I mean,” he stutters out, grimacing at his ineptitude. “I…” he licks his lips. “I want you. Far too much.” The _and you don’t feel the same_ isn’t said, but Sherlock knows it’s true. He closes his eyes, waits for the disgust, the _I loved Mary_ , the blame _you got her killed_ , the anger _can’t you do anything right._

He flinches at the touch of fingers on his cheek, curling around until they’ve slid into his hair, gently gripping the curls.

“Sherlock, look at me,” John rasps. 

Sherlock shakes his head.

“Please,” John asks again and, against his better judgement, Sherlock lets his eyes open. They meet John’s.

“Whatever you’re thinking right now, stop,” John commands, thumb brushing circles over Sherlock’s cheekbone. The eye contact floods his system with adrenalin.

“Do you trust me?” John asks, a question that Sherlock answers with a nod because he’s trusted John Watson since the moment he shot a man to save Sherlock’s life and stood by the crime scene, waiting for him.

John tilts his head up and to the side, rises up on his toes, and brings their mouths together. The first touch of their lips is a shock through Sherlock’s body. His breath catches, and John presses closer, lets their bodies touch from hip to chest, kisses each of Sherlock’s lips before parting his own and letting his tongue flick against Sherlock’s philtrum.

“Oh,” Sherlock murmurs between their mouths, and gives in. His hands grip John’s waist, keeping him close, rucking up John’s shirt enough to reach warm skin. He parts his lips, and John’s tongue teases him with soft licks and flickers of touch. Sherlock follows his lead and the moment he enters John’s mouth he’s intoxicated with the taste, yearns for more. When Sherlock nips John’s bottom lip, his fingers tighten in Sherlock’s hair while John’s other hand comes up to rest over Sherlock’s heart. Heat pools in Sherlock’s veins, making him whimper softly and grind against John. His head thumps against the door, and John leaves his lips to trail down his jaw and neck, worrying the skin between his teeth then soothing the sting with brushes of his tongue.

“John,” Sherlock exhales. 

“What’s done is done, and it’s not your fault she’s gone. I want this,” John whispers against his skin. “You, and me, always.”

The words are everything Sherlock’s never permitted himself to imagine. His head feels light, the sound of his heartbeat fills his ears.

“Yes,” he finally gasps out. “Please, I...”

John takes him by the hand and pulls him back toward the bed. John stops when his knees hit the side, then sits and looks up at Sherlock, trusting. Sherlock’s eyes are drawn to the bulge in John’s jeans, and his own cock, half-hard in his trousers, aches in sympathy.

“I want to touch you,” Sherlock confesses.

“Then touch me,” John replies.

He tugs on John’s hand until he stands again. They stand there a moment, drinking each other in. Sherlock’s fingers slide down to John’s waist, then pull the jumper over John’s head, mussing his hair. He slips the buttons on John’s shirt from their holes; peels it from his shoulders. Sherlock presses a soft kiss to John’s scar, but swallows back his deductions of angles and positions and calibre of weapon and recovery.

John’s hand cups the back of his neck, quietly encouraging, until Sherlock can pull himself from his thoughts and finally touch his hands to John’s chest. John’s body is warm, soft in some areas, but still toned. His chest hair is golden in the lamp light, crinkly against the pads of Sherlock’s fingers. He brushes over John’s nipples, and John sucks in a sharp breath. He guides Sherlock’s face up, then kisses him again, and it quickly turns into something Sherlock can’t control; searching tongues and lips sloppy with passion, heavy breaths sucked in through their noses and exhaled between them, panting. John shoves Sherlock’s coat to the floor, fumbles with his jacket and shirt and, when they’re both skin to skin, runs his hands across Sherlock’s back, stuttering over the scars there and kissing him harder for it.

John pulls away for air, and Sherlock lets his fingers slip down to the button on John’s jeans and undo it, then tug down the zipper. With a bit of a shove, the jeans pool around John’s ankles, and Sherlock groans softly at the sight left behind. John’s cock is fully hard, stretching the fabric of his pants; the head pokes out over the waistband. When Sherlock brushes a finger over the slit, John shivers and presses his forehead into Sherlock’s shoulder.

“Please,” he begs, and Sherlock pulls his pants off and gives John a soft push onto the bed. He scrambles to get out of his own trousers and pants, then climbs onto the bed, perching himself over John on his hands and knees. He stares down at John, enraptured, and John does the same to him.

“Look at you,” John says, hushed. “Gorgeous.”

“John.”

John smiles at him and brings a hand up to Sherlock’s waist. “Touch me,” he urges, echoing his words from before, and any resistance Sherlock ever built up against John Watson dissipates as he brings their hips together. 

Sherlock moans. John’s cock is slick with precome and _touching him_ , and the first thrust leaves Sherlock gasping for breath.

“C’mon, then,” John encourages, and reaches down to wrap a hand around the two of them. Sherlock complies, thrusting his hips, and braces himself on one arm so that the other is free to roam over John’s skin, to tweak his nipples and grip his shoulder when John’s thumb circles the head of Sherlock’s cock, making his hips stutter.  
John follows his lead and tightens his hold around them just enough, flicks his tongue over Sherlock’s nipples and runs his other hand down Sherlock’s chest and abdomen. Both of them sweaty and hard and their chests are heaving, and Sherlock can’t get enough of it. 

“More, more,” he demands, capturing John’s lips with his own. His pace picks up speed and before he realises it he’s there, hovering at the edge and just waiting to drop.

“C’mon, love,” John encourages, and with a loud moan Sherlock lets go and comes on John’s navel and cock, shivering with the strength of it. Shaking, he wraps his own hand around John’s cock, needing to see it. He sucks a bruise onto John’s neck and strokes John over and over, listening to John’s breaths grow shallow and feeling John’s heart slam out its beat.

“Sherlock,” John chokes out, and all it takes is one more stroke from root to tip for him to come, coating Sherlock’s fingers. After, Sherlock kisses him messily, nerves sparking in his chest.

“Oh my god,” John says, tone wondering, and Sherlock stiffens slightly, preparing to pull away. John shakes his head, keeping his hand on Sherlock’s waist, and clarifies.

“That was amazing.”

Sherlock feels a blush spread across his cheeks, but permits John to tug him closer, wrapping him in a hug. Relief and affection mix inside him, leaving him drowsy and smiling.

“Should probably clean up,” John murmurs. 

Sherlock tugs on the sheet and uses the corner to wipe them off, then pulls it until it covers them up to the waist. Blearily, he reaches over to turn off the light. 

“Stay.”

John squeezes him tightly in the dark and turns his head to kiss Sherlock’s temple. “Always,” he promises.

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading!


End file.
